The Man Who Risked It All

by Laurent Gounelle

  I spent the evening walking around the city, looking at the situation from every angle, searching for the weaknesses in the system, trying out different scenarios. I had a feeling I would manage to find an entry point, an idea that would allow me to redeal the cards and be in a position to take on the CEO. But was it genuine intuition talking, or simply my burning desire to find a solution?

  When I got home, I found a paper bag hanging from the doorknob of my apartment. I opened it at the kitchen table. Inside was a plate, still warm, covered in tinfoil. Taped to it was a little blue envelope with a scalloped flap. I opened it and pulled out a card of the same color. Written in classic European penmanship, with loops and flourishes that few people know how to form anymore, was the message: Bon appétit from Madame Blanchard.

  That evening I dined on a delicious chocolate cake.

  38

  IN SPITE OF my wish to do everything I could to try and succeed at my last test, I had to take precautions. My chances of success were so slim that I had to prepare myself to face the consequences if I failed.

  So I decided to begin a thorough investigation of Igor Dubrovski’s shady past. If he had obtained his acquittal by hypnotizing the jurors, which we would probably never know for sure, there remained other aspects of the case that could be uncovered and would give me a certain negotiating power when I confronted him. I was driven by the conviction that the keys to my freedom lay in Dubrovski’s past.

  I went back on the Internet, looking for the article by the journalist from Le Monde who seemed to know far more than the others about the suicide affair. I remembered that the article contained such precise details about Dubrovski and his methods that it seemed very likely the journalist had known him. I absolutely must talk to him.

  I found the article again, by Jean Calusacq. I picked up the phone and dialed Le Monde.

  “Hello, I’m trying to contact Jean Calusacq, a journalist who was working for Le Monde in the 1970s. I don’t know if he’s still with you.”

  “Who did you say?”

  “Calusacq. Jean Calusacq.”

  “Never heard of him. And I’ve been here eight years. Your friend must have retired a long time ago!”

  “He’s not my friend, but I absolutely must find him. It’s very important. There must be someone in your office who would know how to contact him.”

  “How should I know? I can’t go and shout on every floor!”

  “Okay, but somewhere you must have the name of the editor at that time. He could tell me.”

  I heard a sigh.

  “How long ago, did you say?”

  “1976.”

  “Please hold.”

  A jazz tune on the saxophone played while I waited for the operator to come back on the line. I began to wonder if I hadn’t been forgotten.

  “Here it is, Raymond Verger,” she finally said. “But I can’t guarantee anything. We lost contact a long time ago.”

  I dialed the number the Le Monde operator gave me, concerned that it might no longer be in service. A ring tone. Phew! After eight rings, I was about to give up when someone answered. Crossing my fingers, I asked to speak to Verger.

  “Who shall I say is calling?” asked a woman, in a slightly quavering voice.

  “Alan Greenmor.”

  “Does he know you?”

  “No, not yet, but I’d like to speak to him about one of his former colleagues.”

  “Good! That will amuse him. Speak clearly if you want him to understand you.”

  There followed a long silence. Finally I heard whispers, then “Hello,” in a drawling voice.

  I followed the advice given by his wife, enunciating clearly. “Hello, Monsieur Verger. My name is Alan Greenmor. I got your number from Le Monde. I’m calling because I need to speak to one of your old journalists. It’s very important, and the paper thinks you might known how to contact him.”

  “An old journalist? I still see a few of them. What’s his name? I remember every one of them. My wife would say I’m unbeatable.”

  “Jean Calusacq.”

  “Who?”

  “Jean Calusacq.”

  A long silence.

  “Monsieur Verger, are you still there?”

  “It doesn’t ring any bells,” he admitted.

  “It was more than thirty years ago,” I prompted.

  “No, no! That’s not the problem! I’d remember. No, it must have been a pseudonym.”

  “A pseudonym?”

  “Yes, journalists often use them to sign articles that aren’t in the style of what they usually write, for example.”

  “And you could find his real name?”

  “Yes. I’ve got the list of my journalists and their pseudonyms. I’ve kept everything. Call me back in thirty minutes, and I’ll tell you.”

  Half an hour later, his wife passed me on to Verger, but not before she’d advised me to be brief in order not to encroach on his naptime.

  “There is no Calusacq on my list,” Verger told me. “Are you sure of the name?”

  “Yes, absolutely.”

  “Then it was probably someone famous. If that was the case, we didn’t write anything down in order to ensure complete anonymity.”

  Someone famous? Why would someone famous take an interest in the suicide of someone unknown?

  “I’m sorry,” Verger said, clearly disappointed. “I’m not going to be able to help you. Leave me your phone number though, in case I remember something.”

  39

  THEY SAY THAT fortune favors the bold. In my case, it was a long time coming. I went from misfortune to mishap. I was trying to take on an incredible challenge, while fighting on my own against a brilliant and powerful madman. But the fates were obviously not on my side.

  That morning I arrived at the office late. The day’s first candidates were waiting in the ground-floor reception area. I crossed the lobby and took the stairs in order not to find myself in the same elevator as my boss, sparing us both the embarrassed silence that would have accompanied us from floor to floor.

  I scarcely had time to sit down at my desk before Alice came in and closed the door after her.

  “Look at this,” she said, holding out two sheets of paper.

  I took the documents. One was from the administration department. I recognized the black list of companies in financial difficulties that wanted to use our services. It was drawn up each month for the department heads, who usually passed it on to us. This month, we hadn’t received it.

  The other piece of paper contained each consultant’s list of prospective customers to be contacted or followed up with during the week. A glance at it was enough to see that most of the companies were on both lists. The black list was dated August 1; the list of prospective customers, August 5.

  “Do you realize what this means?” Alice was incensed. “We’re being pushed to solicit business from clients we know probably won’t pay! It’s ridiculous! Management is making more and more senseless decisions! I really don’t understand the company. And do you realize what this means for us? If the client doesn’t pay, we don’t get our commission! So we’ll be working for nothing.”

  I wasn’t listening anymore. An idea had just arisen in my mind and was slowly taking shape.

  “Why are you smiling?” Alice asked, piqued that I wasn’t sharing her outrage.

  “May I keep these papers?” I asked her.

  “Yes, of course, but …”

  “Thanks. A thousand times thanks, Alice. You have perhaps just saved my life.”

  “Well, let’s just say it’ll stop you from working for nothing.”

  “I’ve got to make a call; do forgive me.”

  As soon as she left, I picked up the phone and called Vanessa, asking her to reschedule all my appointments. I had to take the day off. There would be repercussions, but in any case, my future as an employee was compromised whatever happened.

  The annual meeting of Dunker Consulting was to take place on August 28. Igor Dubrovski had
said we were to meet on the 29. So he hadn’t chosen the date at random. And I had been thinking that the idea of this last test had come to him in the heat of the moment, during our meeting. But no, it was premeditated.

  Back home, I called my bank and ordered them to buy me one share of Dunker Consulting, the prerequisite for running for CEO. According to the bylaws, it wasn’t necessary to declare my candidacy in advance, just at the beginning of the meeting. So I could stay in the shadows until the last minute.

  My idea had a 1 in 1,000 chance of succeeding. But I would present myself to the shareholders to try and convince them to vote for me. My God, just the thought of it made me shiver. I got stage fright when I had to talk in front of 10 or 15 colleagues. But I couldn’t afford to ruin my chances just because of stage fright. There must be a way to learn to speak calmly in public.

  I searched on the Internet for companies that offered training in public speaking. I only managed to reach one of them on the phone; all the others were closed for August. The name of the company was promising: Speech-Masters. The person who answered suggested I come and meet the tutor before I signed up. I made an appointment. Then I called Alice at the office.

  “I told you, didn’t I, that Dunker was putting bogus job advertisements in the papers?”

  “Yes, Alan. I still haven’t gotten over it.”

  “Listen, I need you. Could you draw up a list of them?”

  “A list of bogus ads?”

  “Yes, that’s it.”

  Silence.

  “It would take ages to do. How far back do you want to go?”

  “I don’t know. Let’s say the last three months.”

  “I would have to check all the ads in each newspaper one by one and then cross-reference them with our internal lists.”

  “Could you do that for me? It’s mega-important.”

  “I think you’re a little mysterious today.”

  “Please, Alice.”

  40

  SINCE I COULD find no trace of the journalist from Le Monde, I decided to go to the source—to the family whose son François was the suicide mentioned in the articles on Dubrovski’s trial. It was sensitive, but that way I could probably find out a lot more about what had really happened.

  The house was not very difficult to find. At the time, the newspapers had described the location. There were no other Littrecs in the neighborhood, and I easily found their address in an online directory.

  Vitry-sur-Seine is a few miles southeast of Paris. I went by car. Knowing I was being followed, I kept looking in the rearview mirror. Under no circumstances must Dubrovski know where I was going. At the Porte d’Orléans, I took the highway to the south, then after a few miles, I pulled over on the shoulder, threw the car in reverse, and backed up an on ramp. A dangerous maneuver, but it worked.

  It’s always difficult to get your bearings in the Paris suburbs. At each red light I pored over the map I had unfolded on the passenger seat next to me. I arrived in Vitry by the Boulevard Maxime-Gorki, then made my way through streets with names like Avenue Iouri-Gagarine and Boulevard de Stalingrad. Where on earth was I? I thought the Soviet Union had been dissolved years ago! Turning my head to the right, I saw the Vitry town hall. I was so surprised, I nearly ran into the car in front of me: the building was a sort of miniature Kremlin!

  All this was amusing, but I had to find my way. Now I was thoroughly lost. I finally came out on a quiet street lined with modest houses. I parked and continued on foot. Number 19 was tall and narrow with white-painted bricks. The paint was peeling in places, but the house must have been charming before time left its mark.

  I went up to the wooden gate. The garden, if you could call the meager space separating the house from the street a garden, was abandoned, with weeds poking up through the gravel path. I screwed up my courage and gave a short ring on the bell.

  Nothing happened for a long while. Finally, the door opened a crack, revealing the exhausted face of an old man. I knew right away that I had the right address.

  “Monsieur Littrec? My name is Alan Greenmor. I’ve come to see you because I need to ask you a few questions. Please forgive me in advance for awakening painful memories, but I must talk to you about your son.”

  The vertical fold between his eyebrows deepened even more as he shook his head. “No, Monsieur,” he said weakly. “I don’t want to talk about him. Sorry.”

  I insisted. “I have reason to think I am in a situation similar to your son’s at the time, and …”

  “Let him come in!” shouted a woman’s voice from inside the house.

  The man looked down, sighed, and then opened the door wider, as he withdrew inside.

  The interior was simple and old-fashioned but spotless, despite a slight musty smell.

  “I can’t get up to greet you; my legs hurt too much,” said the old woman, who was propped up in an armchair. I heard the staircase creak as her husband disappeared upstairs.

  “At the moment,” I began, “my life is being threatened by a psychiatrist named Igor Dubrovski. If my information is correct, you lodged a formal complaint against him at the time of—”

  “My son’s suicide, yes.”

  “And he got away with it, cleared for lack of proof. Would you tell me what you know about the man?”

  “It was so long ago,” she said.

  “Tell me what you remember; it’s important so that I can try to protect myself.”

  “You know, I had only met him once before the trial.”

  “But he was the person treating your son in therapy.”

  “Yes, chiefly, and we spoke to him the day my husband and I entrusted him with François. To be honest, I don’t even remember what he said to us that day.”

  “Why do you say ‘chiefly’?”

  “There were two of them looking after François.”

  “Your son had two psychiatrists?”

  “Yes. Doctor Dubrovski and another one, at the hospital.”

  I paused, thinking.

  “What did your son tell you about Igor Dubrovski?”

  “Oh, he told me nothing, Monsieur. He wasn’t a talker, you know. He was used to keeping everything to himself.” She sighed for a moment, and then added, “It’s probably what weighed on him so heavily.”

  “But why did you complain about Dubrovski, if there were two psychiatrists looking after your son?”

  “The world collapsed beneath us when François died. He was our only son. All the rest was of no importance. We knew it wasn’t going to give us our François back. We complained because we were asked to, but we were never into revenge. There’s no point fighting fate.”

  “But why did you press charges against Igor Dubrovski and not against the other psychiatrist? Why not both of them? And by the way, what were you accusing him of exactly?”

  “It was explained to us that he was the one who had made François commit suicide. We didn’t make anything up, you know. We just said what we were told to say. And even then, we went to the hearing every day reluctantly. Above all, we wanted to be left alone.”

  “Wait, wait. Who told you what to say?”

  “The man who was advising us. He kept saying, ‘Think of all the young people you’re going to save.’”

  “You mean your lawyer?”

  “No, not the lawyer. He never came to see us.”

  “Who was it, then?”

  “I don’t remember anymore. It was so long ago. And lots of people came to the house at that time. First the emergency services, then the police, an inspector, insurance people. All of them were people my husband and I didn’t know.”

  “And this man, you don’t remember his title or his official role?”

  She hesitated, delving in vain into her memory.

  “No. But he was someone high up.”

  “Could you describe him to me?”

  “No, I’m sorry. I can’t remember his face. The only thing that comes back to me is that he was fanatical about his shoes. It was so od
d that I remember it.”

  I wouldn’t get far with that sort of information.

  “Really fanatical,” she went on, recalling the scene with a sad smile. “He kept asking us to make sure our dog didn’t get near his loafers. I admit the dog slobbered a bit. And during our conversation, the man got a handkerchief out of his pocket several times to wipe his shoes. As he went out, he wiped his feet for ages on the mat. It annoyed me a little, I have to say.”

  41

  YOUR ENEMIES’ ENEMIES are not necessarily your friends. The man I was due to meet that morning behind the stock exchange was not my friend and probably never would be. Yet he was the only man in the world capable of keeping Dunker awake at night: Fisherman, the journalist who regularly published negative articles about our company in Les Echos; Fisherman, who without ever having set foot in our offices, had one day dared to write that our teams weren’t productive enough, setting off a wave of internal measures worthy of the worst austerity plans, thereby ratcheting up the pressure we lived under.

  We had spoken on the phone, and I had persuaded him to meet me, being sufficiently enigmatic to arouse his interest while still leaving him in the dark. I arrived early and sat at a little round marble table. There weren’t many customers in the late morning, but a waiter was busy laying tables for lunch, and the barman was serving beers to a few regulars.

  I had described myself to Fisherman so that he would recognize me when he arrived. But when I saw a man in a tweed jacket and open-necked shirt, with a serious face and large tortoiseshell glasses barely hiding thick eyebrows, I had a feeling it was Fisherman, even before he saw me.

  He half-heartedly greeted me, without smiling. I offered to buy him a coffee, which he refused.

  “As I was saying on the phone,” I began, “on certain days, I will be in a position to tell you the probable movement of the Dunker Consulting share price for the next day.”